


Operation Perfection

by orphan_account



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Games, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 13:32:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4061857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Playing a game of Operation is nothing like the real thing, as Ambulon discovers - fortunately he's got Pipes to support him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Operation Perfection

**Author's Note:**

> Commission for Downbox, who wanted a slice of Ambulon's life aboard the Lost Light.

“How are you so good at this game?!” Pipes was in awe. The game was called Operation, and it was one of Ambulon’s favourites. Very gently, and so, so slowly, Ambulon lifted the little plastic fuel pump out of the poor caricature’s side. As soon as he was free of the game’s dangerous limitations, Ambulon breathed, and the tight expression of concentration eased into a grin.

            “I kind of have to be,” he said to Pipes, who was sitting opposite, marvelling at Ambulon’s steady hands. Ambulon rested the fuel pump beside the game and passed the metal tweezers across the table, “Your turn.” 

            The same look of pure concentration befell Pipes as he hovered over the game and poised the tweezers above the patient’s T-Cog. As soon as he attempted the removal, the plastic patient’s red nose flashed and the alarm startled Pipes and a few other customers sitting nearby in Swerve’s bar. Pipes felt tension creep up his shoulders.

            “Try again,” Ambulon offered, feeling generous and sympathetic as his stack of body parts continued to grow every turn, but Pipes had yet to accrue a single plastic organ. Maybe, if the competition had been more of a threat, Ambulon wouldn’t be so generous, but Pipes sighed at his own futility and relinquished control of the tweezers.

            “And this is why you’re the doctor, and I’m not.”

            “A lot of people would probably rather you to be their practitioner…” Ambulon paused his grumbling and locked the tweezers around the T-cog. He maintained his silence until the object was safely stacked with the rest of his organs, “…Than me, when ever the mechs on this ship get stuck with me, they always seem to want a second opinion.” An instance occurred recently when a patient arrived in the medical bay cradling a severed finger. When Ambulon’s natural reaction was to reattach the still twitching limb, the patient asked for Ratchet’s opinion. It was irritating, but not nearly as frustrating as Ratchet’s tendency to indulge these ridiculous requests.

            Pipes listened to Ambulon whinge about mech’s demeanours often, and each time he always got a little concerned. In Pipes’ company, Ambulon was pleasant, but sometimes if Pipes’ was joined by friends, he’d notice Ambulon’s personality recede and where Pipes saw shyness, other saw an ignorant Decepticon trait.

            “But it’s getting better though, right? You said Ratchet was giving you more responsibilities.” Yes, responsibilities First Aid had been entitled to within the first few weeks of their arrival and Ambulon had to earn through dogged determination and hard work.

            “Yeah, he’s letting me lead my first unsupervised surgery today.”

            Pipes’ face lit up, he was excited for Ambulon, but his reaction was premature. Ambulon didn’t look happy.

            “Isn’t that a good thing?”

            Ambulon shrugged, he supposed it was, but he could hardly get excited about performing a surgery he’d done dozens times before while Ratchet scrutinized his every move.

            “It’s a simple procedure, nothing very interesting,” even if the operation would be a big deal for the anaesthetised mech lying on the gurney, for Ambulon it was just another part of his routine, “It’s just replacing a wonky piston.”

            Pipes failed at removing the brain module on the board game and the piercing sound made him shudder. Ambulon took over the tweezers and leaned in close to the board, his focus condensing his voice to a whisper.

            “It’s just one out, one in…no trouble at all,” and as Ambulon explained, he wiggled the brain module clear of the impression in the caricature’s head.

            Pipes expression creased,

            “And that’s why you’re the doctor.”

            Ambulon grinned, looking up at his company with a smile of success,

            _“That’s why I’m the doctor.”_

            All of Ambulon’s confidence faded to ash, suddenly there wasn’t a plastic board game staring back at him, but a living, breathing patient instead. In a parody of his earlier match with Pipes, Ambulon was standing over a gurney, holding a forceps drenched in vital fluid and squeezed between the prongs was Dogfight’s faulty piston.

            But something had gone wrong. There shouldn’t have been so much energon overflowing into the cavity of Dogfight’s torso. As Ambulon watched the sheer, unstoppable volume pump out and cover everything in vivid pink, it was as if Ambulon’s own energon had stiffened and clotted. His hands started to shake.

            “Slag!” Across the table, First Aid, who’d been assisting with the transplant, reacted. “Get some gauze!” Ambulon jolted out of his initial panic, the gauze was snatched off the nearest tray of instruments and Ambulon caked the fabric against the fissure that appeared to be leaking the most. He put pressure on the wound, but the energon kept pouring out and Ambulon couldn’t think of why.

            Dogfight flinched under Ambulon’s hands and dread crushed Ambulon’s spark as he watched the vital signs recorded on an overhead screen scramble and bounce. Under his hands, Dogfight started to shake violently.

            “He’s having a seizure!”

            “ _Move_!”

            Ratchet’s shoulder suddenly barged into Ambulon’s, shunting him aside.

            In the race to stop the bleeding, Ambulon didn’t think to object or wonder where Ratchet had come from, or how he had conveniently appeared at a time when nothing was going according to plan. The mech was supposed to be enjoying his off shift, instead Ratchet was barking orders at his fumbling staff.

            “You forgot to clamp the main artery before you made the extraction, he’s going into shock!”

            Realisation was painful. It was such a stupid and damaging mistake. Ambulon diligently carried out Ratchet’s instructions and kept his head down. He couldn’t bear to look at First Aid, as he knew accepting the mech’s sympathy would cripple his self-esteem. Until the operation was over and Dogfight had been fitted with a new piston and patched up, Ambulon felt like there was a weight pressing down on his back, as he left the theatre on a quest to wash the energon off his hands, the weight turned into an anvil and Ambulon felt it pushing him closer and closer to the ground.

            He reached the sink and dunked his hands in cleanser, scrubbing hard at the dried energon and subsequently rubbing off some of his own paint too. Ambulon growled and threw his head back, gazing at the ceiling as a flush of frustration dragged him into the abyss of regret, oblivious to Ratchet’s approach until he put his hand on Ambulon’s shoulder.

            Ambulon flinched away from the contact because he was startled, Ratchet retracted and came to stand alongside Ambulon as he finished washing up.

            “You didn’t clamp the main”-

            “I know what I did wrong,” Ambulon growled, he didn’t mean to sound so aggressive, fortunately Ratchet appeared to understand what was going on in his head, “Sorry,” Ambulon muttered for the sake of it.

            “It’s okay, everyone makes mistakes.”

            “You don’t.”

            Ambulon wanted to ask if that was why Ratchet was hanging around the medical bay, had he been expecting something to go horribly wrong? Well, if that was the case, then Ambulon should consider himself lucky because he couldn’t say with assurance that, after the initial shock of the disaster wore off, that he had everything under control. Nevertheless, the lack of faith was disquieting and Ambulon struggled to digest failure.

            Fortunately, Ratchet pretended not to hear the speel in Ambulon’s comment.           

            “What?”

            Chewing his lips, Ambulon turned to face Ratchet, his wet hands dripping suds of antiseptic on to the floor. He lost his nerve.

            “Nothing.”

            Ratchet tried reminding Ambulon, in an abrasive way, that it wasn’t the end of the world. Such an assurance couldn’t quell Ambulon’s nerves and he carried out the remainder of his shift with unsteady hands.

            Though the panic had been resolved and it was not his shift, Ratchet continued to hover. He kept a wary eye on Ambulon, like an over-cautious custodian until it was finally time for Ambulon to sign off from his duty shift. Ratchet promptly released him and Ambulon left the room dragging all of the doom and gloom along with him as he escaped into the corridor. It followed him like a storm cloud and collected in the atmosphere of his room once Ambulon had safely sealed himself inside.

            Fighting through the feelings of loss and displacement was a pressing need to do better. This terrible reputation he was building for himself wasn’t good enough, but as long as he thought of himself as useless nothing would change.

            When Pipes arrived at his door later that evening, carrying their favourite game, he disturbed Ambulon’s intense study of the Hydraulic Process in Support Pistons. Pipes was smiling when the door opened, but the expression disintegrated as rapidly as Ambulon’s attention homed in on the Operation board game clutched in Pipe’s hands. They both winced.

            “Oh no,” Pipes knew instantly that Ambulon wasn’t happy and immediately admitted himself to the room, “When you weren’t at Swerve’s this evening I had a bad feeling, what happened?”

            Ambulon shook his head and flopped down on the berth, sitting with his hands clasped between his knees.

            “I fragged up.” He muttered, and it was clear to see that his mistake was affecting him badly. There were volumes upon volumes of data pads strewn across his desk and bed, the byproduct of a long night of revision. He had Pipes’ sympathy. The tattered box housing the pieces of Operation was set aside on the berth and Pipes came to join Ambulon, sitting down and extending a comforting hand.

            “Do you want to talk about it?”

            Ambulon chuffed air at the ceiling and vocalised his indecision. On the one hand, his need to explain himself was a burning desire foaming restlessly on his tongue, on the other hand, Ambulon felt embarrassed. He knew Pipes was wholly capable of empathising, but without an understanding of medical terminology, Pipes’ couldn’t comprehend as deeply as Ambulon could, how stupid his mistake had been. One lapse in memory and a freezing panic and Dogfight’s life was in jeopardy. Ambulon blamed himself.

            “It was a stupid mistake. Ratchet fixed it.”

            “I thought you said Ratchet wasn’t supposed to be there?”

            “Hmmm,” he wasn’t, but it was a good thing he was.

            “Oh Ambulon, I’m sorry - I really thought it was all going to go okay.”

            “Me too.”

            Pipes sidled closer, giving Ambulon a shoulder to lean on and smoothed his hand down the chipped paint of Ambulon’s arms as Ambulon accepted the offer and settled.

            “It’ll be okay. I’m sure you’ll have other chances to impress Ratchet.”

            Despite trying to sound reassuring, by both understood how much of a setback this would be. Ambulon made a feeble whine and shuffled closer, dimming his optics and savouring the warm body nestled against him. Pipes was unused to the attention, a tickle of heat stroked his neck and he cleared his throat.

            “You’ll do better next time, until then,” he reached out and retrieved the dusty Operation box. Although it was frequently used, the game’s permanent home in Swerve’s bar subjected the box to a few sticky circumstances. Pipes pulled the game onto his lap and traced the shiny rings marking the cover where people had used the lid as a coaster for their overflowing drinks, “I can always help you practice.”

            It was a kind offer, albeit useless. Still, it made Ambulon smile. Twisting his head, Ambulon looked up at Pipes. There was warmth swelling in his spark that melted his fatigue. Ambulon linked an arm round Pipes’ waist, hugging him closer.

            “I’ll uh…haha, I’ll be your patient.” Pipes felt Ambulon’s body wobble against his, “What?!” Pipes cawed. “Why are you laughing? I’m being serious.”

            “I know.” Ambulon muttered, his voice muffled by the neck cables he’d pressed his mouth to. Heat bloomed under his soft touch and Ambulon felt content again. He leaned back, sincere thankfulness making his expression dopy. “Are you sure you want to put your life in my hands?” If not his life then Pipes could certainly think of something else he’d like to see sliding through Ambulon’s grasp and the allure of the thought made him shove away from Ambulon, blushing hard.

            Refusing to be deterred, Ambulon pursued Pipes. Reaching out, he put pressure of Pipes’ hips.

            Once Pipes’ back touched down on the berth, his visor flipped back. Two bright optics shone up at Ambulon, brimming with excitable wonder.

            “Is this how they teach medicine at the academy?”

            Shaking his head at Pipes’ poor jokes, Ambulon’s grin was soon crushed over Pipes’ mask.   

            If Pipes wanted a lesson, he’d have to undergo a physical examination first and even if Ambulon’s performance wasn’t enough to impress Ratchet, it certainly left Pipes feeling beyond satisfied.             


End file.
